Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails
by Emrys1
Summary: This time, Sam watches over Dean.  Followup story to my fic, What Little Boys Are Made Of. Itty, bitty, eensy, weensy spoiler for Faith.


**A/N: This story was brought about by a comment that vesuvianite made on lj about my other story, "What Little Boys Are Made Of." The comment was: '**I wish he would have considered stealing food before prostituting himself.'** At first, I thought I had made a mistake in my thought process during the writing of "Little Boys," but then I realized that there could be a reason why I never had Dean even consider stealing food. That's where this story comes to play. Having said all that, there's no way this little ficlet makes sense unless you read "What Little Boys Are Made Of." Also, there are the usual warnings for language in addition to warnings for vague recollections of child prostitution…but nothing explicit. Enjoy! Emrys**

**A/N2: A very small detail missed my attention during the first posting of this fic. Thanks to a sharp-eyed friend, I've made a change to straighten out my mistake. Thanks Katalin!(Emrys-June 24, 2007)**

**Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails**

Sam can't remember a time when Dean's looked worse. His brother's body is sweat-soaked and pummeled by chills. His skin exudes a sour, toxic scent that can only mean the particles of illness being pushed through his weakening system have invaded the inner, fundamental workings of organ, tissue and cell. All of this is bad enough, but what really sets Sam's teeth on edge is the sound of Dean's labored breathing. That wet, rough noise is the insidious harbinger of a big, bad nastiness. Its reality keeps Sam from seeking any sort of refuge in the false hope that Dean's just exhibiting the symptoms of a typical cold. Besides, the sight of Dean extracting air in heavy, difficult breaths does little to contradict the need for concern.

Sam wants to lay waste to the virus that abounds in Dean's pulmonary tissue and which is surely the cause of his discomfort. But he's useless in this capacity so instead he moves to the small bathroom of the cheap motel room where he moistens one of the aging, yellowish washcloths with cold water from the tap. When he leaves the cracked tiled haven of the bathroom, he can't help but notice that Dean's sickly pallor has turned a shade greyer. To make matters more worrying, the menacing sounds of lung-deep congestion—indicated by the entwined noises of wheezing and coughing—have only gotten louder.

Sam simultaneously places the cool washcloth on his brother's sweat-soaked forehead and tugs at Dean's shoulder. Despite the combined stimuli and Dean's honed instincts, it takes too long for the elder Winchester's eyes to drift open.

"Sammy?" Dean asks once his eyes are open wide enough so he's able to see who's standing in front of him.

"Dean—"

"Sammy? You okay?" The words are a whispered croaking impacted by the blockage of what Sam suspects is slow suffocation.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam says. He wonders at his brother's concern which is still strong despite the fact that it's actually Dean who's the one in trouble right now.

Dean nods, and his eyes close again. Sam sees him wince and move his hand to his head as if it pains him.

"How's your headache?" Sam asks. Despite knowing most of his brother's tells, Dean's been closed-lipped about his symptoms, and Sam's still not sure of the extent of his pain.

"Fine. Head's fine," Dean mutters, but the lines of hurt surrounding his eyes belies the comment.

"I've got some Tylenol," Sam says, grabbing the bottle of pain reliever off the nightstand. He quickly shakes out a couple of the pills, but before he can offer them, Dean turns a disturbing shade of green.

"N…no," Dean says, eyes still closed. He begins swallowing in abrupt, thick bursts, and Sam has just enough time to grab the garbage can before Dean starts gagging. He maneuvers his brother's body so that he won't aspirate on vomit and then shoves the trashcan underneath his face.

Dean's drained and shaking by the time it's over, and Sam settles him back down onto the pillows and then draws the ratty blankets up to his chin. Dean prefers to sleep on his stomach, but right now his breathing is easier if he's on his back and slightly elevated.

"Dude, I think you need a hospital," Sam murmurs.

"N…no hospital," Dean says and then pauses to catch his breath. "Hate 'em," he explains when he's able.

Ever since he escaped from the hospital after his heart was injured fighting that goddamn raw-head, Dean's been reticent about going to any medical facility. But considering the symptoms his brother's experiencing, Sam's beginning to think they're not going to have a choice this time around.

"Dean, you're getting worse," he says in an effort to reason with his near-delirious brother.

"I…'m fine, Sam. Lemme be."

Sam feels a stab of frustration brought on by the situation. Dean was nursing a cold for almost a week when he was held under stagnant bog water by a sprite trying to make her annual kill. The adrenaline coursing through Sam didn't keep him from losing sight of the fact that the only real way he could save his brother was by killing the water sprite first—he was and is, after all, a hunter's son. The cold iron in his hand burned when he lifted its fragile weight, and his heart ached with the knowledge that every second that passed was one in which his brother was denied oxygen.

Those seconds passed too quickly, and the svelte sprite was wily and cautious as Sam approached her. She watched Sam carefully, and her eyes narrowed with suspicion as he moved closer. He covertly pinned the frozen sewing needle made of iron into the folds of his jacket so that she wouldn't see it, but he knew that she sensed something wrong by the frown on her ethereal face.

"You will not have him," she said in a voice that squelched like water trapped in the tight places of black earth.

Sam took a step closer and said nothing. He knew that sprites were cunning creatures and speaking could give this one power that he didn't want her to have.

"You will not have him," she repeated, laughing in a girlish way that raised the hairs on the back of Sam's neck. Her smile broadened ghoulishly, and then without warning she lunged at Sam when he took one step too close.

Sam was ready for her though and, adrenaline still pouring through him, he deftly side-stepped her, pulled the needle free, and managed to nick the corner of her left eye with the edge of its cold iron. It was the smallest of wounds, but one that would do the job that Sam needed it to do.

The sprite screamed in anger, and Sam had a moment to notice that gangrenous blood streamed from her eye like festering tears before she disappeared in a monstrous splashing of water. He took little time to adjust to the sudden change from quick and deadly battle to the quiet, solitary success that came with her vanishing before plunging into the filthy water to search its depths for his brother.

Apparently no longer under the thrall that had kept him pinned under the water, Dean was kicking his way back to the surface when Sam dove under. Sam easily reached him and helped him back to the mucky shore where the elder Winchester collapsed. There, Dean violently brought up the water that had settled into his lungs, but in between bouts of heavy coughing he smiled rakishly at his brother.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Never better," Dean replied once he was able to catch his breath.

But the truth is that Dean wasn't okay then, and he's not okay now. Some of the polluted water soaked into Dean's lungs during his scrape with the sprite, and it brought along its own bits of nastiness that only magnified and added to the effects of the viral infection he previously was fighting. Right now, Sam thinks that Dean is suffering from pneumonia.

A very bad case of pneumonia.

"Dean—"

"Sammy?" Dean asks, and coughs. "You okay?"

Sam presses his fingers into his forehead as he realizes that Dean's increasing disorientation is not a good thing. Not a good thing at all.

"Yeah, Dean. I'm okay."

"N…no hospital," Dean mutters breathlessly, and then stills. Sam panics until he realizes that his brother has simply fallen into a fitful sleep.

He goes back to the bathroom and wrings out the washcloth before dampening it again with cold water. He returns to Dean's bedside and begins washing down his brother's face and neck in a desperate attempt to lower the rising fever.

He's cursing the entire time he's working, because Dean's being an asshole. Sam doesn't understand this philosophy that his brother lives by; the one that puts Sam before all others. He actually hates this philosophy so much that he doesn't much care to understand it. Hates it because it's also a philosophy that makes Dean put others in front of himself. It's the cause for their current predicament, and the cause for a life fraught with what Sam considers is unnecessary self-sacrifice on Dean's part. At least Sam and his father hunt to garner revenge; Dean hunts because he wants to put his own life in danger for the sake of others.

It's a warped and depressing way of thinking about oneself and one's worth, and Sam's just tired enough to want to weep because of it.

Dean's fever must be higher now, because the cold water soaking the washcloth quickly heats up as Sam wipes it across his sick brother's face. He goes into the bathroom to moisten the washcloth again, and it's this time, the third time, when he catches the slight odor of sulfur drifting from the tap water.

The scent, which is both frightening and insulting, triggers a distant recollection of another hotel room. The memory of that time so long ago when he was eight is not as vague as some of the others that Sam carries with him. Maybe it's the gnawing, debilitating hunger he suffered that has sharpened his evocation of this experience. Or maybe it's the fear for Dean that gradually developed over the course of several days. Sam's not sure of the cause, but the truth is this is a memory that often surfaces when Sam's thrust into battle with Dean's self-deprecating outlook on life.

At the time, so long ago when Sam was eight, he was too little to understand much more than Dean had been close to crossing some line. Some dangerous line that Sam knew existed but which remained undefined to his young mind. He remembers Dean staring out a window and being splashed with oscillating tones of black and red. He remembers the buzzing annoyance of electricity, and the twinned look of fear and determination that steadily grew on his older brother's face as the days slowly passed.

The memory of the desperate-looking boys he noticed on their illicit trip to the little grocery store stayed with him long after the actual incident. And over time, as his knowledge of the world and what lives in it grew, he's been able to piece together what his older brother was willing to do for him way back then when Sam was too little to understand, and they only had each other for company.

Right now, while he's soaking the washcloth with sulfurous water, Sam can clearly remember when he finally started to put together the last pieces of the puzzle that had been Dean's actions back then. He was fourteen, standing on the outskirts of a different city, standing by his brother and waiting for their father who had called and ordered them to check out of their hotel. Something wrong had happened during a hunt—of course their father hadn't explained exactly what—and they had to leave immediately.

So, angry and annoyed, he was standing with Dean and silently fuming. And then Dean took an overtly protective stance for reasons that Sam wasn't immediately able to determine. He was annoyed that his brother stepped in front of him and partially blocked his view of a car. It was a low car, an aged sedan, but Sam wasn't able to make any other observations, because his stupid, older brother was in the way. Dean said something gruff and unrelenting, and a voice like oil rolled through the air in response. Then the car slowly moved past the two Winchester boys, down the busy road until it stopped at a place where some boys were slinking across the street. One of the boys drove off with the oily-voiced man while another was returned from his ride in a different low car. Sam saw the wad of bills that the returned boy carelessly flaunted, and that was exactly the moment when he put it together.

That was when he was introduced to the first half of Dean's philosophy; the half that states Sam's worth is greater than any other's. Up until then, he hadn't truly recognized the extent of Dean's actions on any conscious level. And later, during the idle times between hunts when his thoughts drifted to bologna sandwiches and stalking, rangy boys, he gradually became acquainted with the second part of Dean's philosophy. Because when he languidly contemplated things like five dollar bills stretched thin and strange women speaking in foreign tongues, he couldn't help but wonder—why hadn't Dean just stolen food for them both?

The answer wasn't immediately clear, but with time it slowly developed. In Dean's world, stealing from people is wrong. His big brother would never have considered taking what he needed, because it would have hurt someone else. And here's the part of Dean's philosophy that Sam hates the most, the putting all others in front of himself part of Dean's goddamn, fucking, idiotic, stupid ass philosophy.

Because it's always, _always_ the reason why Dean puts himself in danger. It's the reason why he almost prostituted himself, it's the reason why he almost fucking died from the raw head attack, and it's the reason why they went after a water sprite that almost drowned him.

Right now, Sam sighs heavily and squeezes out the washcloth again. The smell of sulfur is pervasive, but Dean's muttering and coughing heavily in the other room so Sam ignores the repugnant scent. He rushes from the dimly lit bathroom to find Dean weakly struggling out of his bed. The tangled mess of the blankets has his legs trapped, so he's not making much headway. But he's coughing wildly and wheezing in between, and it's enough to skyrocket Sam's heart rate.

He's by Dean's side in two, long strides. Placing one hand on his brother's burning forehead and another on his heaving chest, Sam pushes Dean back against the pillows.

"Leave me…'lone," Dean says in two gasps that are thick with congestion. He coughs hard, and the fight in him is weakening. "Leave…leave…me—"

It's a request Sam refuses to grant even though Dean thinks his own worth is so unimportant compared to anyone else's. In fact, Sam _abjectly_ refuses, because Dean's always been worthy of the world, of sacrifice and at the very least a goddamn, _stolen_ bologna sandwich. Dean's worthy of so much more than he knows. And so now as Sam struggles with his brother, he makes a decision. It's a hard decision, but an easy one all the same.

"Dean," he says to his brother who's only semi-conscious and way too sick, "let me take care of you this time."

In a little while—when Sam is carefully bundling his older brother in thin, hotel blankets that smell of sweat and sickness and when he's tenderly easing Dean into the Impala's broad, back seat, and while the car eats up the road between hotel and hospital—all that while, the determination on Sam's face will mirror that which once marred his brother's so long ago when Sammy was eight, and Dean watched over him.


End file.
